


Chrysalis, Part I

by silverr



Category: Basara (manga)
Genre: M/M, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To become a butterfly, he must survive metamorphosis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chrysalis, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Basara_ is copyright Yumi Tamura, Flower Comics and KSS. No infringement or disrespect of the intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Basara or its derivative works is intended by this non-profit, noncommercial amateur fan fiction.

There's no point in beating a sleeping slave, and so I always made a lot of noise when I went into the shed, to make sure that he was awake and ready for me.

"Number 31."

He would strip off his rags, kneel, hold out his hands to be bound. Complacent, almost eager.

There were those who thought I only beat the slaves when I was drunk, but such people have clearly never heard that old phrase "Discipline and gold drain from the cup that fills with wine." There were nobles, especially in the north, who would pay kingly sums for a properly-trained cup-bearer, and I planned to turn 31 into exactly what I knew they would want.

It took time, of course. I finally settled on a flat, flexible strip of bamboo two fingers wide, with a leather wrapped handle for comfortable gripping. I always made sure to reinforce desirable behavior at the end of each session by complimenting him: much like my high-strung purebred Arabians, he needed a certain diet of reassurance.

As he got older and began to leave childhood I knew that, just as young horses need to become accustomed to the bit and saddle before they can be entrusted to riders, so did Number 31 need to receive his specialized training. This too he became as avid for as he was for the training rod, responding in an indecent way to my handling, arousing quickly and sometimes even ejaculating, as if he were much older.

Although, even then, when he began to disgust me with his mindless carnality, I was also still proud of my work. Until the final betrayal, Number 31 had been proof that it was possible to take the coarsest common clay and shape it into the finest, most delicate porcelain. I had worked hard to make sure that he would be perfect in every way for his new masters, and I had made him into almost exactly what I wanted him to be.

.

~ | ~

.

"Number 31."

It always started this way, with my name, to emphasize that he was in charge.

"You're disgusting."

That was always the signal for the first blow.

Later on, when I was older, I understood what he might have thought he wanted – to break me, teach me respect, make me beg so that he could feel powerful – wasn't really what he was after at all. What he wanted, more than anything, was for me to resist, to show no emotion as he beat me, because only then could he release his rage, become savage, get hard enough to fuck me, lose control.

Because then it wasn't his fault he was raping a child: it was mine.

And I … at the time, I know I felt I was trying to be brave, trying to live long enough to escape. But over the years I came to understand why he valued me, and in a way I became proud that I was the only one strong enough to withstand his transformation. Stronger than his wife, stronger than his children.

"Ah, that's good, your skin is a proper color now, red with shame. Sickening, perverse – you're barely even human. Go ahead, rub that dirty thing between your legs, moan for me like the whore you are," he'd say, fumbling with his pants. "Stick your tail in the hair like a bitch in heat, I'll give you what you want."

He never lasted long after that. And then – instead of just leaving he'd caress me, say how much he cherished me, how delicious I was, what a beautiful man I would be. Oh, he valued me all right: he was usually careful not to draw blood when he beat me, because scars would have lowered my market value.

He seemed so weak in those moments. I preferred it when he beat me.

Over time, I suppose I almost looked forward to his visits, partly because they broke the monotony of being confined. And – though it will disgust you to hear this – as I got older I began to notice new, intense sensations weaving into the pain and humiliation that followed the beatings. I was too young at first to understand what was happening, how to protect myself against this scarring of my soul; by the time I did understand, it was too late.

Still, I should be grateful. He made me the man I am today.

.

.

_~ The end ~_

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo round 3, card 1, kink 3,2: penance/punishment
> 
> AN: This is another one that gave me some trouble (understatement). I thank my old friend Musouka who, by very patiently letting me bitch and moan over IM as I was writing, got me to talk myself into the solution of whose POV to write the story from, and helped me choose the title.  
> (05) 30 August 2010


End file.
